


Seal of Approval

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, I'm not going to explain this... it just happened, If you all keep asking for these things I will never finish my WIPs, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, This is because you asked for it, Tumblr short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: John never thought much about having a peaceful childhood. He was content to keep his head down when he was at school. He had to work hard to be a good student. He preferred to be outside. Running around with the other neighborhood lads and getting into the occasional scrap and skinning his knees and getting grass stains on his clothes. He spent his time at home in his room. His sister was loud and that grated on his parents’ nerves. His dad was unpredictable which grated on his own nerves. And his mum was… his mum.And for two weeks every summer, he was able to leave it all behind.





	Seal of Approval

John never thought much about having a peaceful childhood. He was content to keep his head down when he was at school. He had to work hard to be a good student. He preferred to be outside. Running around with the other neighborhood lads and getting into the occasional scrap and skinning his knees and getting grass stains on his clothes. He spent his time at home in his room. His sister was loud and that grated on his parents’ nerves. His dad was unpredictable which grated on his own nerves. And his mum was… his mum.

And for two weeks every summer, he was able to leave it all behind.

His Nan and Grandda kept a small cottage on the Isle of Skye. After decades of work and a hard life, they retired to the quiet life. Quiet in numbers, though not in weather. It was a wonderful and wild place. John was set free to explore to his heart’s content. Harry had been above it all, preferring to stay in the city and with her friends. But John wanted to get out. To explore. To wander and discover and escape. It was, without fail, the best two weeks of his year. Every summer.

His days were vaguely structured. He had a warm fry with his Nan and she would pack him a lunch: fresh bread, cheese, and some sort of protein with two fresh apples and whatever summer fruits she had available. Then he’d be put out into the wilderness with the expectation to be home in time for dinner. Dinner was normally a stew or pie or salad with soup and fresh biscuits for dessert. And then he’d sit in one of the big chairs and listen to his Grandda tell stories or read books or watch him work with his hands.

There were three rules, and he took them to heart. First, no swimming without supervision. The waters were deceptively deep and currents were strong. Second, no climbing higher than his head in a tree or up the side of the hills. There were lots of hills and lots of trees and plenty of places to get stuck with no help down. Third, and perhaps most importantly, at any sign of rain, John was to come straight back to the cottage. It was a good rule. John loved the storms, but he didn’t fancy being stuck outside in one.

John was happy to follow the rules. They weren’t terribly restrictive and there was an entire world to investigate without crossing them. He explored the forests and the nearby bridges, lakes, and hills. He played in the tide pools and learned to skip stones in the sea. There were fields with sheep and coos, streams with tadpoles and frogs, ruins and thatched cottages, boats and docks and waves and water. He’d come home with scrapes and stones, with leaves and flowers, and stories from the wilds outside. John was never bored.

His fondest memories were from the damp, rainy nights. Nan would build a fire in the old open stove, Grandda would light his pipe, they would all drink tea, and John would hear the myths and legends of the local lands. The stories of the Fae: banshees and broonies, faeries and gnomes, giants and blue men, wulvers and mermaids. Nothing was better than listening by firelight, the smell of pipe tobacco and baking making him lazy and slow, his Grandda’s old hands gesticulating in the shadows, and falling asleep with the smell of fresh ozone and moss drifting through the windows. John loved those two weeks. He loved his Nan and Grandda. He loved the people and wild, the accents and the smells. He wouldn’t trade the summers for anything.

One summer, when he was perhaps seven, John remembered a sunny day that he’d found himself on the beach. It had been bright and hot, and the tide pools were the same temperature of his baths. It was too much to stay away from the water and the heat of the sun was enough that John had stripped out of his tee-shirt and shorts, heaping his clothes in a pile on the blanket his Nan had loaned him. And after skipping every flat rock he’d found, he wound up sitting on the sand in his pants, the waves lapping at his toes and ankles. He dropped onto his back and closed his eyes, soaking in the UV rays. He was young enough that his hair was still a baby blond, and his skin managed to tan, and the sheer pleasure of baking himself outdoors hadn’t worn thin. It was a lazy day, and after wandering the shoreline for an hour, John was content to fall asleep on the beach.

He woke to the sound of splashing. It was incongruous with the steady beat of waves, and irregular enough to rouse his attention. He sucked in a deep breath and propped himself up on his elbows, squinting out at the sea. Someone was swimming. John lifted a hand to shade his eyes and squinted harder. There was someone just swimming, free, in the waves.

John chewed on his lower lip as they dipped beneath the surf, trying to find them again. “Hey!” he called when he thought they’d surfaced. “Alright?” He waved an arm hoping to get their attention. He shook himself, glancing up and down the shore. There was no one else in sight. No adults. No supervision. He couldn’t go in and help them. “Hey!” he called again. “You okay?”

After a moment, a dark head popped out of the water. John could see the smile from his place in the sand. And he waited, watching the figure make his way in. It was fascinating, seeing a small, strong swimmer in the sea. It was the work of five minutes before the figure made it ashore. John sat up, wrapping his arms around his shins, gazing out as they stumbled up the beach. John cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“Erm. Hello?” It was a boy. Someone quite possibly his own age. Skinny and knock-kneed, his skin so pale that it was hard for John to look at.

John looked anyway and smiled. “I’m John.” He stuck out a hand.

The boy frowned, a small furrow appearing between his brows. “Hello, John?”

John’s smile didn’t waver. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Lovely day.”

“It is.”

John squinted, trying to bring the face into focus. “It’s awfully hot out. Do you want some water?” He dug into his rucksack and pulled out his thermos of water. He offered it up with a shake. “I’ve loads.”

“I…”

John flashed his teeth with a broad grin. “Come on,” he patted the blanket beside him. “I have some food too.”

The boy cocked his head to the side and gave John a long look. “I… Alright.”

It made John feel warm as the boy settled on the blanket at his side. He offered the water first, then a section of his tuna sandwich. “You must be a strong swimmer.”

“Oh?” He took a bite of the sandwich and hummed pleasantly.

“Well,” John shrugged. “I’m not allowed in the sea without supervision.”

The boy smiled, mischief glinting in sea tinged eyes. “Of course not.”

“So…” John sucked on his lower lip. “I’m John.”

“Hello, John,” The boy grinned. “Sherlock.”

John’s nose wrinkled. “Sherlock,” he tested the sound on his tongue. “I like it!”

Sherlock nodded, jet-black curls falling free as they dried in the heat. He nibbled on the sandwich, taking the occasional sip from John’s water. “So. John…”

John flopped backwards on the blanket. “Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

John smiled and blinked lazily. “I’m on holiday! With my Nan. And my Grandda.” He stretched his arms out to the side. “I’m free. What are you doing?”

Sherlock blinked and shrugged one shoulder. “I am… free as well.”

“Where did ye learn to swim like that?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “I’ve always known how to swim.”

John hummed and closed his eyes. “I wish I could swim like that.”

Sherlock looked down at him, the crown of curls framed in the sun, “One day, I could probably teach you.”

John cracked an eye. “Really?”

“Really.”

John’s smile was as bright as the daylight. “Thanks!”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s fine.”

John pushed himself up. “Hey, you like strawberries?”

“Strawberries?”

John dug into his ruck and pulled out a bag of strawberries. “Nan packs them when she has loads. They’re delicious.” He fished one out of the bag and offered it.

Sherlock took it between a thumb and forefinger, examining it carefully. “What does it taste like?”

John blinked. “Um… like a strawberry?”

“Which is?”

“I dunno. It’s sweet. Tart. Juicy and red. It tastes like summer,” John said wistfully.

“Oh.” Sherlock nibbled primly at the tip of it. “It’s… Good.”

John beamed. “Enjoy!” And he offered another.

Sherlock took a second. And a third. “It’s… It is kind of you to share.”

John shrugged both shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. “I’ve no one else to share with. And they taste good.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Well.”

John closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sun. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock offered.

“Yeah, that.” John giggled. “I like your freckles.”

“My what?”

John pointed at his nose, the faint trail dusting across the bridge and cheeks. “Freckles. I like them. I don’t get them.”

“Ugh, they’re absurd. Why don’t you get them?”

“I guess I just tan,” John offered.

A wry smile twisted Sherlock’s lips. “You’re odd.”

“Ya? So are ye.” John laughed again.

Sherlock sniffed and nodded. “True.”

John bit his lower lip and grinned. “If you want, my Nan is making dinner. I’m sure there’s extra. You could come for dinner.”

“Thank you. But I couldn’t.”

“Hmm,” John nodded. “That’s fair.”

“I should go.”

“Oh?”

“I have to get home before my sisters miss me.”

“You have sisters too?” John wrinkled his nose. “My sister is a pain.”

Sherlock heaved a breath. “They are very demanding.”

“Aren’t they?”

Sherlock nodded and stood, then stretched. “It was… nice to meet you, John.”

John smiled. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned and started to pick his way down the beach towards the surf.

“Oi, Sherlock!” John called, waiting for him to turn around. John pointed up the coast to the deep navy and brown fabric draped across the rocks. “Don’t forget your towel!”

Sherlock’s face twisted strangely. He nodded once. Then retrieved his belongings and continued down the shoreline, and out of John’s line of sight.

When he got home, John chatted to his Nan, telling her about his new friend and his jet-black curls, and eyes like the sea, and strange name, and how he loved strawberries. And as always, John’s Nan listened, and made him tea, and fed him biscuits, and nodded along with the story.

~

When he was seventeen, John’s trip to Skye was less than pleasant. He hadn’t been in nearly three years. The thought made him sad. Grandda hadn’t been well. But work, and rugby, and prep for Uni had been in the forefront of John’s mind, and two weeks with nothing to do and zero responsibility had become a thing of the past. He needed his grades to be perfect, and he needed to have some cash on hand, and he needed to be in tip-top shape to keep his position on the team, and none of that seemed enough of an excuse when Grandda was sick. Or when he’d grown worse. Or when he’d collapsed. Or when he left Nan on her own.

John made the trip for the funeral, his first time there in the autumn. Harry came too. It felt odd having her there after so many years of refusal. But Nan didn’t mind. She doted the way she’d always done. Baking bread and biscuits, sharing blankets, tucking people in for the evening and seeing to everyone’s needs. It made John’s heart hurt. Who would she mind now? How could she stay here? He would be going off to Uni in a year. Harry was already gone. Gone from home and the family if Da was right about it. John sighed and tightened his grip on the porch railing. The sea was as it always was: wild and changing and unpredictably predictable. It made his chest tight.

“Who smokes a pipe these days?”

“No one smokes, dear. It’s become passé.”

“Should we just…”

John pushed his way into the kitchen, snatching the pipe and tobacco from confused hands. “I’ll take it.”

“John,” his mother murmured. “You don’t smoke.”

“I’ll take it,” he repeated, stuffing the items in the pockets of his suit. “I’ll take it.” It was important that it not be thrown out. He didn’t know why. But it was important. He stole the matches for good measure.

Later that night, when the flighty guests had left and the heavy relatives had fallen into a bit of a drunken stupor, as was the Watson way, Harry convinced John that it was time to go out.

“Come on, Johnny. Don’t be boring. There’s a pub in town.”

“Harry, who cares about the pub.”

“John. It’s a pub! Live a little.”

John sighed, ran a hand through his shaggy hair and nodded. “Fine, fine. We’ll go to the pub. But, Harry,” John pointed a finger. “You’ll eat something first, so help me.”

“Fine.”

John collected a small stash of food, wrapping the sweets and fruit and appetizers in a napkin, then in a bag, and tucking it in the ever-filling pockets of his suit. “This is ridiculous.”

“Take off your tie, Johnny,” Harry grinned as John started the car. “You look like Grandda.”

John pressed his eyes closed for a moment. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when you’re only seventeen.”

John sighed. “Right. Where are we going?”

Harry directed him into town, down the small lanes and around the back of one of two pubs. She was here for all of three days and she knew where to find the pub. This one was loud. There was music. There were other people his age, and beer, and bodies, and it only took a few minutes before it was all too much. John ducked outside, bringing his sparkling water along. He’d lied and told Harry it was a gin and tonic. Why’d he do that?

He pushed himself up to sit on one of the whiskey barrel tables and leaned back against the bricks. He didn’t want to be here. He tugged his tie loose and opened the first button of his shirt, the crisp air refreshing, cleansing after the press of people inside. The windows were fogged over, and the bass was thumping through the wall heavily enough that he could feel it in his chest. But it was the smell of the sea, wafting over the breeze that loosened some of the tightness. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his head rest against the wall.

It couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes before the door opened, letting another person escape the melee inside. John kept his eyes closed, assuming they were leaving, heading home, or whatever people here did at this hour. The repeated snick of a lighter caught his ear and he finally turned toward the intruder. The man had his back to John, shifting back and forth as the lighter continued to fail to work.

“Blast!” A large coat was tossed over the nearest table as he shook the lighter and tried again.

John sighed and pulled the matches from his pocket, giving the box a shake as the man startled. “Here. Use mine.”

The man turned, his head tilting as he gave John a long look.

“Matches,” John offered. “If your lighter isn’t,” he gestured absently. “Lighting.”

He stepped closer, his head tilting the other direction as he reached out for the matches.

Man may have been an overestimation that John had made based purely on height. He was tall, but lanky, moving as if he’d not grown accustomed to his long limbs. And his face was young. Young and fair with a mop of unruly dark curls and… “Oh,” John breathed, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know you.”

“Do you now?” He took the matches and lit his cigarette, handing the box back for John to pocket.

“Your welcome,” John murmured.

“Thank you,” he blew out a long puff of smoke. “John.”

John felt his face stretch in a wide smile. “Knew it was you.”

Sherlock hummed and shifted to put his back against the wall, slumping and crossing his legs at the ankles. It brought them eyelevel, his shoulder nearly brushing John’s. “Your hair’s grown darker,” Sherlock offered offhandedly, taking another drag.

“And you’ve lost your freckles.”

Sherlock leaned closer, his elbow bumping John playfully. “Where are the strawberries this time?”

John huffed and dug into his pocket, pulling out the bag of food he’d hastily collected. “I think there’s some strawberry tartlets in here somewhere.”

Sherlock burst out laughing. His chuckles deep and rumbling in spite of his lanky frame. “You’re odd.”

“Ta,” John’s brow flicked up in challenge. “So are you.” Sherlock’s face pulled in mock indignity and John doubled over giggling. It took a moment before their mirth petered out and John leaned back against the wall with a sigh. “God, I needed that. So… You’ve grown tall.”

Sherlock’s weight pressed into his side. “And you’ve grown handsome.”

John flushed. “Don’t wind me up.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said simply. “What are you doing here, John?”

“My sister wanted to go out.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, not here. _Here_.” He waved a hand, the tip of the cigarette glowing with the movement. “I’ve only ever seen you in the summers.”

John made an inquisitive sound. “You’ve seen me around? Why didn’t you say… Hello or something?”

Sherlock’s face creased. “I was… It was never a good time. I was always in the middle of something that couldn’t be helped. You know how family can be.”

“Oh.”

“You’re… upset?”

John swallowed and gave a hesitant nod.

“With… me?”

“What?” He blinked at Sherlock. “No. No, God, no. Not with you. I’m kinda glad you’re here.”

Sherlock turned, his temple resting against the wall as he studied John. “Why do you smell like tobacco? You don’t smoke.” He flicked the remnants of the cigarette to the ground, toing it out without looking.

John huffed out a rather wet sounding laugh and tilted his face up towards the night sky. “Grandda’s pipe.” He sucked in a tight breath. “They were going to throw it away. And I… I couldn’t let them.” The stars swam, blurring in and out of focus until he closed his eyes.

“Oh.” It was a hushed response from far closer than John expected. Then again, the gentle sweep of Sherlock’s thumb across his cheek was much damper than he expected as well. And he blinked up at the strikingly sea-storm eyes from only inches away.

“I miss him already,” John whispered.

“You know what they say, John,” Sherlock murmured, taking John’s face between his palms.

He tucked his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head minutely.

Sherlock’s brow creased with concern. “You shouldn’t weep into the sea.”

“Why’s that?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered towards John’s lips and he closed the distance between them. “It attracts attention.”

He had been expecting the kiss; he’d seen it coming. But when Sherlock’s lips ghosted across his, John couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped the back of his throat. It was too much and not enough, and John felt as though his skin was too tight for all of his emotions as Sherlock tipped his head to kiss him properly. Somewhere before Sherlock’s tongue met his own, but after one of Sherlock’s hands left his face to wrap around his tie, John remembered that he had hands too. And didn’t Sherlock have the softest, silkiest hair.

Speaking of soft, lips were on the list. And warm. It was warm. And a little bit wet in a wonderful and messy way. And God, Sherlock was good at this. Everything was all a bit fuzzy, soft around the edges, slick with the slide of tongues and tingling with a pleasant hum. Sharp teeth closed around his lower lip and John was nearly embarrassed by the sound he made.

Sherlock shifted, nudging his way under John’s jaw while tugging on the tie. John really couldn’t do more than let him, and that was assuming he wanted to do anything other than let him. And it seemed as though he was about to let him leave a mark just there on his neck.

“I am… struggling to see the downside here,” John murmured with a laugh and a gasp.

Sherlock grinned against the skin of his neck. “Forget I said anything then. Delete it.”

The door slammed open and they both jumped, a small chasm of space opening between them.

“Johnny?!”

“Bollocks,” John hissed, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Where the fuck did you-“

John raised a brow at his sister as he took a sip of his water. It was as close to a good show as he could muster at present. “Harry?”

“Time to go, Johnny. Finish your drink.” She waved a hand absently as she pulled the door open. “I’ll meet you at the car in five.”

John grunted and waited for the door to click shut before he sagged against the wall with a groan, covering his face with his hands. “God that was the most… So… Bloody embarrassing…”

Warm fingers wrapped around one wrist, then the other, pulling his hands gently away from his face. “Really? I thought that was terrifyingly elegant.” Sherlock’s eyebrow went up, then he cracked a mischievous grin. John found himself smiling back. And when Sherlock snorted, John broke down in high-pitched giggles.

“Sisters,” John said finally, when he’d caught his breath. “Can be so irritating.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and leaned in to rest his forehead against John’s. “I ought to go as well.”

“Don’t…” John swept a hand down the front of Sherlock’s shirt. “Don’t disappear for another decade again, yeah?” He tipped his chin up, a small, hopeful smile on his face.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock murmured, pressing his lips to John’s brow. He cleared his throat and pulled back, the odd half-smile back on his face. He nodded and turned on his heel, heading off down the lane.

“Wait! Sherlock!” John called, hopping off the barrel.

“Hm?” Sherlock drifted back, stopping just shy of the halo of light by the door.

“Your coat,” John gestured at the table across the path. “Don’t forget your coat.”

A strange expression flashed across Sherlock’s face and was gone in an instant. “Oh, yes. Of course. Thank you.”

~

John squinted up at the sun with a frown, the sky a crisp and cloudless blue. Wasn’t that just bloody perfect. He shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and resumed his stilted walk through The Meadows. It was an unfortunate uphill slog from the surgery to his physio. Thankfully it wasn’t as far as the Old Town. Cutting through the courts and closes was low on his list of priorities. He hung a right into George Square, hoping to cross the university rather than deal with the crowds up by the museum. As it was, the students were all outside to enjoy the weather.

“HEY!”

John stiffened. The shout was nearly lost in the general cacophony of conversations and traffic.

“HEY! SOMEONE STOP HIM!”

John shifted, widening his stance, bracing himself as the sound of shoes pounding pavement echoed off the looming buildings.

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE! STOP THAT THIEF!”

John sucked in a breath as a large man burst around the corner in front of him. The man shoved a pair of pedestrians off the footpath and pulled a bicycle out behind himself. He had a choice. He had a fraction of a second to decide whether or not to get involved. Whether he’d step out of the way, avoid the chaos, and find safety on the grass; or… Or…

“ARE YOU PEOPLE ALL SHEEP?!”

The impact from the man’s shoulder connecting with his sternum nearly winded him as he was spun sideways and half a step back. Well that was rude. The resulting stumble knocked the cane from his hand. Rude and sore. And for once, instead of the low-grade irritation that constantly plagued him day in, day out, he was angry. He was bloody well pissed off. He was… Dear God, he was fucking livid. And he took off after the man.

He was only a couple steps shy from the moment he started his chase. And even though he was clearly a head shorter than the man he was chasing, John knew, he knew he could catch him. What he did with him once he’d caught him was likely to depend on his temper. It was a matter of proper momentum. And surprisingly, his right leg seemed to hold as he pushed off, launching himself at the man. His shoulder slammed firmly into the small of his back and he wrapped his arms around the man’s waist as they both headed for the pavement.

“WOULD SOMEONE PLE-“

The man must have been stunned. It was the only explanation for how John managed to come out on top with one of the man’s arms pinned high up his back and the man’s face planted firmly on the ground.

“Gerroff a meih!”

John shook his head as he caught his breath. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

“Well,” John’s ears perked at the deep, smooth, and disembodied voice as a pair of leather shoes slowed to a stop just behind him. “At least there are still some not-completely-idiotic humans left.”

He snorted and twisted to glare over his shoulder. “Not completely idiotic?” Then he froze. Tall. Lanky. Riotous dark curls. He’d recognize that face anywhere. Sherlock…

“Rather oxymoronic when paired with the word human, don’t you think?” Sherlock stooped, less than gently pulled a small parcel from beneath the thief, and swatted him on the back of the head with it.

“Oi!” the thief complained.

“This is mine,” he hissed back. “Besides, the police should be along any mo-“

“What have – I – told you – about – running off – ahead?”

John’s brow furrowed as the unfamiliar man planted his hands on his hips and puffed air for another moment.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “That it is far more effective at catching them, Lestrade?”

“And who the hell is this?”

John smiled benignly, “I was just… Walking by.”

“Right, well.” Lestrade waved a hand. “Up you get. I’ll take over from here. Can’t have a civilian making an arrest,” he gave Sherlock a pointed look that was met with feigned disinterest.

Civilian… “Alright,” John carefully released the man on the pavement and pushed to his feet. “You’re police then?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he gave a quick nod rather than a handshake as he hauled the thief to his feet. “Sherlock here will take your number, I’ll need a statement from you later.”

“I’m not your secretary, Lestrade!”

“No,” Lestrade grinned. “You’re not. And if you don’t have this man’s number for me tomorrow, you’re banned for a month. Now if you’ll excuse me, this gentleman and I have some words to exchange.”

John shoved his hands into his pockets and watched the DI and thief head towards an oncoming cluster of uniformed police. He could feel Sherlock hovering just behind his left shoulder, and after a long moment, he cleared his throat and turned. “Well that was odd.”

Sherlock blinked, the boredom leaving his face in favor of stunned silence. And John worried that maybe, sadly Sherlock just didn’t remember him; didn’t recognize him. It had been the better part of a decade… More than… And John was… older, tired, war-weary and down-trodden. Why would someone like Sherlock recognize him now?

Slowly, glacially, something in Sherlock’s eyes softened. “You’re odd.”

“So are you.” John grinned, “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said primly, a responding smirk pulling the corners of his mouth.

A wide smile broke across John’s face and he started laughing. It was ridiculous. The whole thing was preposterous. And a moment later, Sherlock’s rumbling chuckles joined his. And it was the lightest John had felt in ages. And as his giggles tapered off, John tilted his head back and closed his eyes, imagining that the damp he felt was because the sun was too bright and the air was too brisk. Finally, he sighed and opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him closely. “So…”

“I believe I need your mobile number,” Sherlock interrupted.

John’s brows shot up. “Oh?”

“Police business,” Sherlock said seriously. “The most urgent of matters.”

“Is it now?” he pursed his lips in an effort to hide his amusement.

“Obviously.”

“Well, in that case,” John rattled off his number. Sherlock hummed as he rapidly tapped at his keys. And John couldn’t help the small smile as his phone chimed in his pocket. “For… police business?”

“Of course.” A small crease appeared between Sherlock’s brows. Whatever he was planning to say was requiring a good deal of thought as he tried to start more than once. “I…” He tilted his head. “Dinner?”

John sucked in the side of his cheek as he started to grin again.

“And should you happen to have strawberries in your pocket, I assure you, they are not actually dinner.”

A bubble of laughter burst out of him. “No strawberries.”

“Disappointing,” Sherlock clucked.

“But,” John caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Dinner sounds… Yeah. Dinner’s good.”

“Excellent. I know a place not far from here. They do a fantastic ravioli.” He started down the street and left John to catch up.

It was a bit of a whirlwind, following Sherlock to the restaurant, catching up over salads and garlic bread, a cheeky mid-afternoon glass of wine to talk about the past decade, and an amazing Linguine ai Frutti di Mare to soften the blow of the most recent strain that brought John back to Edinburg in the first place. It wasn’t until they split a dessert that John worked up the courage to even ask.

“So, are you living here? Or… visiting?”

Sherlock’s face scrunched. “Visiting. London.”

“Oh.”

“There is a fascinating conference on marine mammals that I couldn’t pass up. Only finished this morning.”

“Is… Is that what you do then?”

“Is what what I do?”

“Marine biology?”

Sherlock snorted. “No. But I was giving one of the lectures. It’s amazing how terribly wrong some people insist on being.”

John shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Academia not within your purview?”

“No… Not really, no.” John fanned his fingers out on the table for a moment before thinking better of it and tucking his left hand under the table again, leaving his right to tap absently against the wooden tabletop. “GP work, actually.” When he looked up, his smile was more of a wince. “Pretty dull really.”

Sherlock’s head tipped to the side as he studied John. “No...” he said thoughtfully, or absently, or both. “Not dull.” He slowly tilted his head back the other direction and John started at the sensation of cool fingertips tracing up over the back of his hand, stilling his fidgeting. “Never that.” Sherlock murmured. “John.”

God it was warm inside. Hot. It was hot. Or his company was. Which was undeniably true. He felt himself blush out to the tips of his ears. “Hm?”

“My conference ended this morning.” Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his wrist, the thumb sweeping rhythmically back and forth over his forearm.

“Yeah?” John croaked. Smooth, John.

The corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “I find myself quite without ends.”

“Oh,” John swallowed. “Well… I…”

“Perhaps, coffee,” Sherlock offered, the twist of his lips matching the mischief in his eyes.

“Coffee?” he echoed.

“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed. “I thought you might like to make me a cup.”

A huff of a laugh punched out of John before he could stop himself and it took a moment for him to realize Sherlock wasn’t joking. “Oh.”

“Unless your sister is available to interrupt again.”

Oh. The heat was creeping up the back of his neck, and lord his face must have turned a deep red. “No. Nope,” he shook his head. “I don’t think she’s free to ruin a…” A what? John shrugged with his good shoulder and glanced down at the table.

It was just the tip of an index finger, the pad dragging up from his adam’s apple to the jut of his chin, lifting his face again. Sherlock gave him a long look. “Good.”

It was impulsive, it had to be. But John gave a sharp, short nod.

It was a show of shifting back and forth in his seat, sliding the plate out of the centre of the table, hunching forward on his forearms. It was a show, cute and coy. But then Sherlock’s face was right there, the tip of his nose nearly bumping John’s, the gentle puff of his breath sweeping across John’s cheek. “Tell me you live nearby.”

A flicker of disbelief was drowned in surge of reckless hope. “Yeah.” His tongue swept across his lower lip. “Yeah, I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to glitter. “Good.”

John wasn’t entirely sure how they made it the short distance from food to his flat, but it was quick, hurried, over in a blink and John was fumbling with his keys, trying to make the key and lock fit to get them inside. Sherlock crowded up behind him, standing far too close for polite society, looming really. “I thought surgeons were supposed to be good with their hands.”

John huffed and finally slid the key into place. “I told you, I don’t… I’m not a… not anymore.”

“Not good with your hands?” Sherlock murmured into the skin behind his ear. “Pity.”

“Fuck.” He pushed the door open and gestured Sherlock inside. “After you.” It was a moment of distraction, following Sherlock in. Perhaps he’d have been better not watching the shift of Sherlock’s shoulders under that damn coat. John allowed himself one, quick, self-satisfied smile and crossed the threshold into his flat. Routine dictated the keys went in the bowl to the left, then shoes off, then jacket on the peg.

The keys clinked into the porcelain and John stumbled back into the closing door, the coat falling from his arms and his shoulders hitting the wood with a thud, one large palm splayed across his sternum. And Sherlock followed his hand, molding himself along John’s front with a rumbling hum. “No,” he cupped John’s cheek in his hand, tilting the surprised face up to meet him. “You first. I insist.”

John’s groan was muted against Sherlock’s lips. And God, they were as soft as he remembered. Fantasized. Soft and full and practiced. And hungry. Or maybe that was himself. He could taste the lingering hints of cream and vanilla on Sherlock’s tongue. He could smell the wine, and sweat, and sea. He slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist, under the coat, up his back, trapping them between layers of fabric and it didn’t seem fair. He dug his fingers in and pulled Sherlock closer.

The palm on his chest turned into a fist in his jumper as Sherlock’s lips slid from his mouth to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Oh God, teeth scraped over his carotid and John felt his head fall back against the door with a thud. “Sherlock,” he hummed, freeing a hand to run fingers through satiny curls. The murmur of his name seemed to bring his weight further down upon John, a thigh insinuating itself between John’s, a warm chest pressing into his own. It was like being wrapped in seductive cotton wool.

Sherlock’s fingers finally released the front of his jumper in favor of sliding a hand beneath it. Then both. And he tugged upward. “Off,” Sherlock nipped at John’s ear lobe. John’s breath caught in his throat as fingertips traced up the side of his ribcage. His shirt and jumper caught under his arms then were pulled free and dropped somewhere over Sherlock’s shoulder. “You,” Sherlock grumbled with palms running down the cotton of his undershirt, “Are wearing far too many layers.”

John huffed out a laugh, as Sherlock tugged on the simple collar. “Me?” He slid his hands across Sherlock’s shoulders, under the great coat. “This is gorgeous on you, but you’re way overdressed.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “You want me to take my coat off?”

“If you’re staying for a cup of coffee,” John tilted his head into the fingers tracing whorls behind his ear. “It’s only polite. But…”

“But?”

John grinned and yanked on the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket, bringing his face back down in line with his own. “But if that’s a euphemism, you’ll need to take off a lot more.”

“Fine.” Sherlock closed his teeth purposefully around John’s lower lip and ran his tongue along the captured bit of flesh. John’s entire body shuddered and he arched off the door with a gasp. Sherlock pinned him back in place a moment later. Without his coat. Without his suit jacket. And John groaned out his appreciation. “Better?”

“Nearly,” John grabbed the back of Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it free of his trousers, finally getting his hands on bare skin at the base of Sherlock’s spine. “Yeah, better.” An answering hum of approval met his ears as Sherlock’s hands snaked under his tee-shirt, palms gliding up his chest. And for a moment, the only movement was the slow slide of fingers across his ribs. Then a breath, and another. John blinked his eyes open and stared, “God, how are you so gorgeous?”

A small flush of pink bloomed across Sherlock’s cheeks before he could hide it, brushing his nose along John’s temple. “Me?”

John scoffed then his breath caught at the sensation of lips and tongue and teeth played against the soft skin behind his ear. “Fuck,” the sound clicked in his throat. “Yes you.”

“Mmn,” the sound rumbled out of Sherlock and straight through John’s chest. “You,” Sherlock nosed under John’s chin, tracing the line of his jaw with the tip of his tongue. “Are clearly confused.” He gripped the hem of John’s undershirt and dragged it up, briefly catching it under his chin before it joined his jumper and oxford somewhere on the floor. “Because this,” John shuddered at the slow drag of fingertips from collarbone to belt. “Is perfection.”

“It’s a bit broken,” he whispered, fumbling with the strangely complex buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. Large hands cradled his hips for a moment as he managed to free the last one.

“John,” Sherlock growled. He met the intense stare with a self-deprecating smile. “John,” he repeated, tracing the waistband of John’s jeans. “Oh, John.” He palmed John’s arse through the denim and pulled him forward. It was a startled sound of delight, and one John didn’t know he could make, but he didn’t try to hide it. Then Sherlock gripped and lifted, forcing John to hook his legs around Sherlock’s waist or dangle uncoordinatedly between Sherlock and the door. “You are exquisite.”

He didn’t have a chance to object. Sherlock pressed his lips hard against John’s, licking into his mouth with singular purpose. And John whimpered, simultaneously going pliant against Sherlock’s invasion and tensing to grab the back of Sherlock’s neck. And just like that, things went from slow and warm to hot and heavy and John leaned into the messy kiss. It was as easy as breathing. And Sherlock’s body rolled against John’s and the hot became flame. “Bed, Sherlock,” John panted. “Bed.”

Sherlock’s teeth flashed. “You have excellent ideas.”

John expected to be set down, to have his feet and legs under him, to lead Sherlock through the sitting room into the small bedroom. But Sherlock shifted his weight and stepped back, hauling John off the door. John yelped, reflexively tightening his legs around Sherlock’s waist, gripping the shoulders under his hands in surprise. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s grin was wide and amused. “Oh, I’m certainly not letting you go.”

John gave a startled chuckle and managed to tip his face down to meet Sherlock’s. “You’re odd.” He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response, happily licking his way into the laughing mouth beneath him.

Sherlock tracked a lazy path around furniture and rugs, finding the bedroom with ease and without removing his lips from John’s until he dumped him on the bed. John squeaked out a laugh, bouncing once before Sherlock followed him down. “Now,” he slid forward, planting a hand on either side of John’s head. “I believe you were going to show me how good surgeons are with their hands.”

John threw his head back and laughed.

~

John woke slowly. Pleasantly. Stretching his limbs and arching his back against a warm tension from only recently overused muscles. He hummed and cleared his throat and blinked his eyes open to an empty bed. Oh. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into the pillow with a groan. Visiting, he’d said he was visiting. God it’d likely be another decade.

He gave himself another moment to wallow a bit, to stay warm and huddled in the blankets. Then he sighed and pushed himself up and out of bed. He found a pair of pants and tugged them on, a tee-shirt, his robe. He shuffled into his kitchen and went about the process of making himself a morning coffee. It wasn’t until he was nearly finished the first mug and two slices of toast that he heard the soft beeping sound. It took another minute to recognize his voicemail notification, and two minutes to locate his mobile, buried beneath his coat and single sock, behind the armchair.

There was a pleasant enough message from the Detective Inspector asking that he come in that afternoon, give a statement, sign some papers. And John sighed. Of course he would. In the mean time, he would tidy the mess he’d made the night before. He collected the other sock from under the kitchen table, his undershirt from the couch and his jumper from beneath it, and… Oh…

~

John found his way down to the station and approached the reception desk. He was pointed deeper into the building with unusual enough directions that suggested the office was not a common drop-in site. John limped further into the station. The limp was embarrassing, but slightly less demeaning than actually purchasing a new cane. His back and shoulder wouldn’t thank him, but at least he didn’t have to explain to some falsely sympathetic salesman that he’d forgotten he needed a cane. That he’d abandoned his on a green to follow some mad, childhood crush…

Oh.

Sherlock was… Sherlock was there. Sitting in the make-shift office with the Detective Inspector from yesterday, his head in his hands, fingers tight in his curls. He looked… upset? Frustrated. Stressed out? Embarrassed? Even before he reached the door, he could see the rapid-fire words spilling from Sherlock’s lips as the DI frowned and tried to focus on a phone call. John shifted the coat from one hand to another, hesitating before announcing himself.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Knock, knock.”

The DI waved him in and flapped a hand at Sherlock’s offended look.

“Sorry. I’m… I’m interrupting.”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, releasing his hair from an overly tight grip. “Lestrade has been on the phone for the better part of the morning.”

Lestrade flashed Sherlock a rude gesture.

John shifted from one foot to the other, licked his lips, and forced a smile. “You’re here. Good.” John knew it sounded weak. He had been hoping to see Sherlock, even if it was to say hello, or goodbye. “I uh…”

Sherlock was staring. Eyes fixed on the coat in John’s hands.

“Oh. Yeah. Um. You left this…” His eyes flicked to the Detective Inspector, trying to gauge how likely the man was to overhear. “I just.” John flashed him a self-deprecating smile. “It looks really good on you. And I wouldn’t want to deprive you of…” He offered the coat. “Just…” He held it out to Sherlock. “It’s yours. And you should have it.”

Consternation. That was the only word John had for the expression on Sherlock’s face as he rose from the chair and edged closer to John.

“You should take better care of this,” John said gently. “That’s gotta be the third time you’d’ve left it behind if I didn’t remind you.”

A small furrow creased the space between Sherlock’s eyebrows as he accepted his coat. He gave John a long, inquisitive look before he must have come to some conclusion, because he nodded. “Thank you.” Perhaps more a question than a statement. “I shall…” He tipped his head towards the door. “I have your number this time,” he smiled, but it looked unsure.

“Yeah, yes. Of course. I’m… Dinner? The next time you’re in town?”

“Next time I’m…”

John shrugged a shoulder. “I just figured… With your conference being done and…”

“Right,” Sherlock said simply. “I will… Be in touch.” He turned to leave and hesitated. “John?”

John nodded, “Hm?”

“You shouldn’t limp. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Then he was gone.

John sighed heavily and turned back towards the DI. He was summarily waved into a chair and he sat, waiting for the phone call to end.

~

Sunday mornings were lazy. John generally spent the better part of the day preparing for the week ahead. Doing laundry, cleaning, shopping, bracing for work and people and moving and being. But the mornings were lazy. He would stay in his pajamas, drinking an extra cup of coffee, reading his way through the Sunday paper until noon. It was indolent, indulgent, and wholly contrary to his natural way of being. But more and more, it was something John needed.

So when he was settled in his armchair, only a quarter way through the paper and halfway through his coffee, with another two hours of laziness stretching out before him, a knock on the door was startling. No one knocked on his door. Ever. Let alone on Sundays. And he sat in his chair, staring at the door disbelievingly until the knock sounded again.

Right. “Coming,” he called, and pushed himself out of the chair. He muttered as he shuffled to the door, something about interruptions and having things to do. But when he pulled the door open, he froze. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock shifted his weight back and forth on the mat, unease and anxiety in every twitch of his frame. “John,” he gave a small nod, ran a hand through his hair, and pressed his lips together. It was as though he was biting back words. He cleared his throat and shifted again, passing a box between hands.

“Oh, uh…” John stepped back from the door and gestured him in. “Come in. Sorry. It’s a bit of a mess. Wasn’t expecting… Company?” He scratched the back of his head and closed the door. “I have some fresh coffee, or tea if you want a cuppa?”

Sherlock shook his head and started pacing, stopped, tossed his coat onto the sofa, squinted at John, shook his head again and resumed pacing.

“Right,” John furrowed his brow and shrugged. He, at least, needed to finish his coffee. He padded back to his chair and retrieved his mug. Sherlock was still pacing. John sighed and put himself directly in Sherlock’s path, forcing him to pull up short.

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose and his face pinched. “John.”

A wry smile twisted John’s lips. “Sherlock. Good morning.”

“You’re not wearing any shoes,” he said absently.

John huffed out a laugh. “No. I’m not. I’m still in my pajamas. It’s Sunday morning. I’ve no where to be.”

“No where to be?”

“No.” John’s grin was pure confusion. “And I wasn’t expecting any company.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “John.”

“Sherlock?” John held out his hands in a whole body shrug. “What’s in the box?”

Sherlock glanced at the box in his hands as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. For you.” He thrust it against John’s chest and started pacing again. “I was under the impression that it’s what one does.”

“What one does?” John raised a brow and set his coffee down on the counter to pry open the box. He laughed again. “Sherlock, are these?”

“Chocolate covered strawberries,” he waved a hand aimlessly.

“Strawberries,” John echoed, placing the box on the counter next to his coffee. “Why would… Why is that something…?” John shook his head. “Sherlock.” He stepped around the kitchen table and put himself back in Sherlock’s way. “Sherlock, stop.”

“John,” Sherlock took his face between his palms. “John.”

John hooked his fingers over Sherlock’s wrists. “Right here.”

“John.”

“That’s me. We’ve established that. Are you alright?”

“John.” Sherlock stooped, meeting John’s curious stare head-on. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Me?”

“John,” he whispered. Then he dipped his head and pressed his lips to John’s. He swallowed his startled gasp, tasting it on his tongue, and pressed forward, backing John into the table behind him.

John threw an arm behind himself, bracing on the tabletop lest he was knocked flat. “Sherlock,” he groaned against persistent lips. The palms on his face became firm hands beneath his bum and he yelped as Sherlock lifted him onto the table. “Sherlock?!”

The protest was lost to another kiss, deeper, demanding. Sherlock stepped into the space between John’s thighs and pulled him to the edge the table, humming into the kiss with a satisfied purr. “John.”

John pulled back, panting, holding firmly to Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock’s hands stroked restlessly down John’s back, his sides, his hips. “Good morning?”

Sherlock cupped his chin and smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”

John smiled back. “Not that… Not that I’m complaining, but what did I do to deserve that?”

“You gave me back my coat,” he murmured.

“What?” John let out a laugh.

“My coat. John,” Sherlock’s hands captured his face again. “John. My coat. You gave it back.”

“Your coat?” John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course I gave it back.”

“John.” He kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. “John.” His chin, his temple, his other temple. “John.”

John started giggling. “And that deserves chocolate covered strawberries?”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock pulled back, his eyes alight. “You have no idea. Twice you reminded me, but you gave it back. John.”

“Ok,” he nodded. “Ok, I gave you back your coat. I admit it.”

Sherlock grinned and dove back in, smearing his lips messily against John’s, pulling a surprised moan from the back of his throat. There were fingers in his hair, across his back, stroking down the outside of his thigh. And when Sherlock finally let him up for air, it was shared breath in the liminal space between their bodies. And Sherlock whispered, “I do.”

John heaved a breath. “You do?”

One of Sherlock’s hands disappeared into his trouser pocket. “Do you remember, as a child, the history of Skye?”

John huffed out a single laugh. “I… Of course.”

“Your grandparents, they taught you, yes?”

He nodded. “Grandda loved to tell stories. But, Sherlock, what-?”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted seriously. “What happened, what was the punishment if a Selkie lost their coat?”

“Lost? Like… The fishermen would take it and…” John sucked in a breath and pulled back. “They were… They’d be stuck.”

Sherlock raised a brow.

“They’d be stuck as human.” John licked his lower lip and shook his head. “But that’s just…”

“They’d be stuck as human, wed to their captor until?”

“Until they could get their coat back and escape back into the sea?”

“You do remember,” Sherlock smiled.

“I remember about Broonies and Wulvers too. That doesn’t-”

“John,” Sherlock held a finger against his lips. “What did it mean if a human gave a Selkie their coat?” John shook his head. “Think.”

He shook his head again. “I… I don’t think that was covered in Grandda’s stories.”

“No?”

John frowned, his face twisting as he tried to remember. “There was the story of the fisherman who stole the Selkie’s skin and she had a family with him and was always sad… And there was… There was the one about the sad, lonely woman who was lured into the sea by a Selkie with promises… And the one where the Selkie fell in love but couldn’t return for seven years… And… The one where…”

“Yes?”

“Where the Selkie dropped their skin,” John gave Sherlock a long look.

“And?”

“And,” he furrowed his brow. “And they returned it to the Selkie.”

“And?”

“And…” John sucked in a sharp breath. “N-no.”

“And?” Sherlock prompted.

“And it was a proposal. But, Sherlock-”

“It was an honest proposal, yes? Borne of affection without deceit, yes? No tricking a poor Selkie onto land. No forcing their hand or trapping them or holding them hostage.”

John gaped at him. “A… A proposal?”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered. “John. You gave me back my coat.”

“Your coat,” John said dumbly.

“And I,” Sherlock pulled his hand from his pocket, unfurling his fingers to reveal a neat, dark ring in his palm. “Accept.”

John stared. He stared at the ring, the deep grey metal matte against Sherlock’s fair skin. He sucked in a breath and held it, trying to decide what any of it meant. “So…” He blew the air out in a rush. “Wait, wait, wait. You,” he squinted up at Sherlock. “You’re telling me that you’re a…”

“Selkie,” Sherlock said primly.

That didn’t make any sense. John let out another laugh, but it was high-pitched and a bit desperate. “No.” He shook his head. “No, nope.” He heaved another breath. “Oh God, I’m having a breakdown.”

“You’re not.”

“This is fantastic,” his breathing sped up.

“I think so.”

“My therapist is going to have a field day with me.” The words started tumbling out. “Same imaginary friend from childhood all grown up. Congratulations, Watson. He’s a mythical creature. Couldn’t find something any more unrealistic? You’ve finally cracked.”

“John.”

“Oh God.” John covered his face with both hands and the next breath was more of a hiccup.

“John, breathe.”

“Nan said this would happen,” John mumbled, trying to catch his breath.

“What would happen?”

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “She was from Barra. And when I’d come home covered in brambles and mud and Grandda would scold me, she’d just say never to mind. That we were descendants of Barra fae and he knew the mischief would come for me.”

“John.” Sherlock’s fingers closed gently around his wrists, easing his hands from his face. He took a long deep breath and let it out slowly, finally blinking up at Sherlock’s face. A small patient smile met his gaze. “John Watson, what have I told you about crying into the sea.”

John laughed wetly. “That it’s distracting.”

“It is.”

“So…” John swallowed. “You’re a Selkie.”

Sherlock nodded.

“And, that’s why you never looked tan, and you had freckles, and knobbly knees, and no idea what strawberries were.”

“I happen to quite adore strawberries,” Sherlock smiled.

“And I…” John blinked. “I accidentally proposed to you.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a wide grin. “And I said yes.”

“Then what’s the ring for?”

“Seems only fair that we get married by the human custom as well, doesn’t it?”

“I…” John smiled dazedly. “Only fair.” Then he promptly burst into a fit of giggles.

Sherlock laughed along with him until he decided it better to kiss the amusement away – a solution that John seemed rather amenable to. “John,” Sherlock murmured. “Say yes.”

He kept both hands buried in Sherlock’s curls and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Where will we live?”

“London,” Sherlock said simply.

“Right. Ok.” John closed his eyes. “And you’ll stop disappearing for years at a time?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not trying to lure me out to sea to drown me?”

“John!”

“No wait,” John chuckled. “That was the Blue men.”

“Of all the offensive…”

“Promise you won’t run away into the sea and never come back.”

Sherlock sighed and shifted, giving John a very serious look. “I promise.”

John nodded slowly. “Right. Right.” He tucked his lower lip between his teeth and considered. “And you’ll stop throwing your coat at strange men?”

“John!”

He wrapped his palm around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him back down. “Of course,” he whispered into Sherlock’s lips. “Of course I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this tumblr post by Howtobangyourmonster: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/172162586078/howtobangyourmonster-kurara-black-blog


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